The Moment to Turn
by snarkhunter
Summary: Coffee, country music, and contemplation. *Complete*


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The Moment to Turn

Summary: Coffee, country music, and contemplation.

Disclaimer: If I owned her, I wouldn't be facing a future in the exciting and fast-paced world of fast food production.

Author's note: Inspired by too many cross-country drives, interstate rest areas, and slow, sad country songs, and by the question of why Abbie left Texas. Title comes from R.E.M.'s "Texarkana."

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She reached the third truck stop past Tulsa at midnight. This was a genuine truck stop, complete with showers and a full-service diner, not one of those cookie cutter rest stops that peppered the interstate highway system. The sign outside the little greasy-spoon diner was visible from the freeway; the promise of hot coffee pulled her into the brightly-lit parking lot. Hers was the only vehicle that didn't boast eighteen wheels.

Truckers were scattered throughout the restaurant, occupying most of the counter stools and a few of the booths. Abbie took one at the latter and studied the menu tucked behind the napkin dispenser. The waitress, who looked like a bad copy of Dolly Parton, ambled over to the booth and pulled out her pad.

"What can I get for you, hon?" she asked. 

"I'll take the burger plate and a cup of coffee," Abbie said. She paused, then asked, "Where's your restroom?"

The waitress—her nametag read "Delilah"—tucked the pad back in her pocket and gestured vaguely towards the kitchen. 

"Straight on back past the jukebox, first door on your left."

Abbie nodded her thanks and went straight on past the jukebox to the first door on the left. It was the men's room. First door on the right was the ladies' room, and she was relieved to find it empty. She splashed some cold water on her face and tried to hold back a wave of self-doubt. 

__

I needed this change, she told herself for the _n_th time that day.

Back in the dining area, the jukebox was playing a country music song. Abbie rested her head against the glass of the window next to the booth and listened…it was some slow, sad song about love and loss and regret, and it reminded her of home. 

She was only 300 miles out of Texas, and already absurdly homesick. She stared out the window at the row of trucks, questioning her decision yet again. She reminded herself of the reasons. She had always wanted to live in New York, and when the job came up, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. She knew she'd have to fight tooth and nail to get anywhere in the good-old-boys' club of the Houston D.A.'s office; she hoped those good old boys wouldn't be so entrenched up north. She was convinced that New York was a better place to establish a successful career. 

They were all good reasons, but none of them could ease the ache that gnawed at her insides whenever she remembered the things that she was leaving behind. The wide, flat countryside; the easy twang of the familiar accent; her family and friends; Michael…. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the memory of him.

Abbie sighed. No matter how much it hurt, she knew she'd never regret leaving like she did, whatever her friends and family might think of her for it. She'd driven north after she left Houston, opting for the long route out of Texas, knowing it would be a long time before she had another chance to see the countryside. She stopped off to see a friend from college who lived in Dallas, and Beth had gently inquired as to the status of her relationship with Michael, if Abbie was leaving the state. Abbie had told her the truth: he wouldn't come with her, and she wouldn't stay just for him. Beth had changed the subject, but not before Abbie had seen the disapproval in her eyes. 

"You okay, honey?" 

Delilah had reappeared with a steaming cup of coffee, and she frowned down at the young woman in the booth. 

Abbie nodded. 

"Just tired," she said.

Delilah patted her on the shoulder and shook her head. 

"They're all dogs, darlin'. Don't waste your time cryin' for him."

Abbie let out a short huff of laughter, and smiled. "He wasn't the problem," she said. "But thanks anyway."

The waitress returned the smile and walked away again, still shaking her head. Abbie heard her mutter, "Pretty girl like that…"

When Delilah had vanished into the kitchen, Abbie closed her eyes again and rested her chin on her hand. Michael hadn't begged her to stay, and she wouldn't ask him again to go. But she had seen him watching her with accusing eyes as she packed her things, taking only what was hers and very little of what had been theirs. 

He had kissed her as she was leaving, and said goodbye. She had forced herself to stick up the façade that had always pulled her through, and refused to show him how much it hurt to leave. Abbie took a sip of her coffee and scowled down into the cup as she forced herself to admit that she would have left eventually. She loved him, but Michael had never really known her, had never really understood her. 

She didn't quite trust men any more—not even him, another thing he didn't know, but she thought he probably suspected. And even if her family and her friends disapproved of her particular brand of independence, and believed she would be better off to stay in Texas, marry Michael, and be content with that life, she knew she couldn't do any of those things. Texas was at once too small and too large to hold her; for a few years at least, she wanted to lose herself in anonymity of New York. She wanted to start over somewhere where she didn't have any memories.

Delilah reappeared with Abbie's hamburger, but this time offered no words of comfort. Abbie ate with mechanical slowness, letting her mind wander from the tastes of burnt coffee and over-cooked beef. The jukebox continued its country serenade, providing, she thought, appropriate background music to her increasingly melancholy thoughts.

Texas had become a prison, and Michael her jailer, and right then she felt like she'd never stop missing either of them. She liked things clear-cut in her mind, black-and-white like the letter of the law, and hated this contradiction. It was her first bout of real homesickness and, though she didn't like to admit it, the first time leaving someone had ever really hurt. She told herself that she had wanted to leave—and she had—but no matter how often she repeated it to herself, the grief never became any clearer. 

Sighing in frustration, Abbie pushed her plate away and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table, wishing she could just drop Michael and all of Texas right beside it. Instead, she gathered her purse and keys, sparing a faint smile for Delilah as she walked out to her car. She rolled down the windows and got back on the freeway, the radio blaring classic rock over the wind. In an hour, she'd stop for gas, and there would be another seventy miles behind her. Maybe by the time she got to New York, she wouldn't want to look back.

***

Eternal thanks, as always, go to Kyl—beta extraordinaire, true fan of 600-pound fiberglass fish, and the friend who makes codependency fun.

Thanks also to the lovely folks on ATLO, and many dirty looks to Callie, the monster under my bed. 


End file.
